


Blue Jeans

by destielpasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Stanford Era, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 00:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2130033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes a moment to himself, and meets a stranger of a new variety to spend it with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Jeans

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Queer Dean Month on tumblr! Shout out to whoever came up with the idea, because it was simply fabulous. Enjoy.

It was nice, sometimes, Dean had to admit.

 

Nice when John took the truck and drove off to God only knows, leaving him with the Impala and a whole mess of free time. There was no hunt, and all Dean had to do was watch some trash TV and get a few more hours of sleep than usual. Easy living. Easier even now that Sammy was gone.

 

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, trying not to think about how Sam had been ignoring his calls for two months now, even after Dean had figured which of the damn Standord dorms was his. Not a big deal. He would call. Soon as he was settled and the bad feelings from the fight blew over.

 

He sits back, waiting for the light to change so he can make a left, not particularly knowing where he was going at the moment. There’s a dive to his left; the typical biker joint with a side of truck driver. He could get a beer. People watch a little.

 

There’s also a mall up the street. One of those small town ones with the huge JCPenny and an Auntie Anne’s sign out front to get you in. He looks down at his feet, analyzing the way that road-salt from the winter had eaten through the bottom of his one of three pairs of jeans, and there was a beer stain near the crotch that he’d just never been able to get out, no matter how hard he scrubbed in the hotel sink.

 

That’s how he finds himself making a semi-legal U-turn towards the mall, flipping the bird to a few beeping horns. Not that he could blame them that much. The Impala was no Mini Cooper when it cut in front of you. He pulls into the JCPenny, throwing his father’s jacket over his shoulders before walking into the store.

 

Apparently he had walked in on the home wares sections, and he weaves through pastel colored towels and gleaming cooking ware to get to the men’s section. Just one pair of carpenter jeans and he would be out of there. No big deal.

 

Turns out that pants had become complicated in his time spent in thrift stores. Dark wash, light wash, acid rinse, lightly distressed, _straight-up holes in the knees_. Not to mention the relaxed fit, professional fit, low-rise, tapered leg, and what the hell was a skinny jean?

 

He looks around, hoping no one has been watching him walk in circles for the past twenty minutes. He grabs one of the least threatening pairs, a medium wash with large pockets and heads for the fitting room. Just in case he was grotesquely off in the sizing.

 

He tries on the jeans, making sure they button and leave enough room for chasing monsters. He’s not entirely sure about them, and he stares at himself in the mirror for a few more seconds than is probably necessary, frowning.

 

“Not bad. I’d have picked the narrower cut, though.”

 

Dean nearly jumps at the voice, whipping around to see a tall man with deep brown skin leaning against the fitting room door, a stack of women’s clothing folded over his arm and a store employee name tag on his chest, drooping enough that his name is obscured.

 

“Yeah, not about that,” Dean mumbles, already retreating back into the dressing room.

 

“Wait a second,” the man entreats, sifting through his large stack of clothes and pulling out another pair of jeans, a darker wash, holding them out to him. “Try these.”

 

“I’m not too picky, man.”

 

“Humor me,” he almost pleads, a small smile at his lips. “Please. I’m bored out of my wits here. Least I can do is help a customer.”

 

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Well I guess if I’m doing you a favor…” taking the offered jeans and moving back into the dressing room.

 

“You really are though,” he continues, “ I used to work a higher end circuit. Got used to fitting tailored suits and really helping customers. Here it’s…” he trails off.

 

“A struggle to get eye contact?” Dean finishes for him, whipping off the plain jeans in exchange for the darker wash pair, pulling them on and already feeling the difference.

 

“Precisely,” he answers. “It’s Marcus by the way. Name tag’s shot to hell.” His accent is light, but obviously English of some kind.

 

“Dean.”

 

They are nice jeans, hugging closer to the leg without cumbersome large pockets. He looks at himself in the small mirror and his legs seem longer from the narrow cut, his hips narrower where he tucked in his shirt.

 

He emerges from the dressing room, and Marcus straightens up when he sees him, smiling.

 

“There it is,” he says. “Looks about ten times better, and probably feels better, right?”

 

Dean shrugs, feeling his ears burn from the praise, as tame as it was. “I guess.”

“You guess?” he says, shaking his head in the mirror behind Dean, “If that’s what they’re calling guessing, I’ll be unsure for the rest of my life.”

 

Dean’s heart thuds against his ribs, the blood pounding in his ears. He’s not stupid. He knows what he looks like. Pretty and young, nothing like the hunter he is, nothing like the way his dad looks, like a Veteran, like someone who had commands respect. He swallows, feeling John’s presence like a vice around his abdomen.

 

But John isn’t there, and the words fall from him before he really thinks.

 

“That all you got to say?” he says, words sounding like a challenge.

 

Marcus’s face falls, and for a moment Dean is filled with gut-wrenching dread that he had misinterpreted something, but then he’s looking down and quickly licking his lips before meeting Dean’s eyes again, through the mirror.

 

“I’m already off the clock.”

 

Dean looks down, breath shaking in his chest when he feels a cool hand slip into his. Marcus pulls him towards the back of the dressing room, to the last stall and shuts the door behind them, crowding into Dean’s space.

 

“Those do look really good on you,” he breathes, back Dean up until his back hits the wall.

 

Dean wants to be suave, like he is so easily with girls, but all he can do is stutter out a weak “Thanks” before Marcus is kissing him. It’s soft, and he’s still holding his hand by their sides.

 

He pulls away, dark eyes blown wide but his expression soft, almost tender. Dean nods, answering some silent question he’s not even sure he was being asked but then Marcus is kissing him again and _oh shit_ that’s all that matters.

 

Because it’s nothing like kissing girls and yet it’s everything like kissing girls-- the same heaving breath and soft lips, but against a different foundation. Marcus presses against him, all straight, hard lines. His hands are large and he runs them along Dean’s sides, pulling him closer, and Dean is already aching in his jeans, needing some kind of friction before he explodes.

 

Marcus breaks away, moving to kiss at Dean’s neck and dip a hand underneath his t-shirt, his flannel and jacket left in the dressing room down the hall.

 

He gasps from the contact, words bubbling to surface; explanations, and insecurities.

 

“I’ve-- I’ve never done this before--” he says, still pulling him in closer and winding both hands around his back.

 

He laughs, his breath hot against Dean’s neck. “Of course you have. With girls right?” he asks.  

 

“Sure but--”

 

“No.” He straightens, looking Dean in the eye, expression serious. “Now, I don’t know you, but I’m gonna assume you just like a bit of this and that. Me too. One thing all the time gets pretty boring.” he licks his lips, staring at Dean’s, “But right now I just want a bit of you.”

 

Dean lets the words hang in the hair, settling in on _want_ and _you_ the most and letting them ring in his head, knowing it’s messed up that he just wants to be touched and held but he can’t help it. Won’t admit it to anyone but his own screwed up consciousness.

 

Instead he pulls Marcus back to him, mashing their lips back together and hitching a leg around his hip, moaning at the contact and the way the other man’s breath stutters into his mouth. Marcus shifts, running a hand down Dean’s thigh to bring him him closer, finally grinding his hips down enough to make Dean yell out from the shock. Marcus slaps a hand over Dean’s mouth, laughing silently, hips still moving steadily and licking at Dean’s neck, taking his other hand and lacing their fingers together above Dean’s head. Dean’s head spins with the feeling of another man’s cock pressed next to his, and he comes with a muffled shout, Marcus grinding until his hips stutter with oversensitivity.

 

Dean’s flushed with exertion and embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says, voice thick.

 

“No worries. I take it as a compliment,” Marcus says, smiling genuinely.

 

Dean wonders how he had met such a nice person to fool around with in the dressing room of a small town mall, but decides not to question it. Instead he unlaces his fingers above his head and moves to Marcus’s waistband, watching the other man gasp as he dips inside to take him in hand, unzipping his pants to give him a few thrusts. Dean feels the aftershocks of his own orgasm as Marcus gasps from the touch of his hand, resting his head on his shoulder, and _holy shit_ if that isn’t hot as hell.

 

He finishes with a groan, spilling into Dean’s hand as he quickens his pace to get him through it. Marcus laughs into his shoulder.

 

“Didn’t think this would be happening today,” he says, straightening up and smiling wide.

 

Dean laughs and guiltily wipes his hand on a clean shirt that was lying abandoned on the floor, hoping his boxers are strong enough to keep him in check at least until he gets back to the hotel room.

 

“I mean, there’s not much around here,” Marcus is saying, his hands in his pockets by the door, “But we could grab some food, maybe catch a movie, if you want.”

 

Dean swallows hard, his mind whirring.

 

“I can’t.”

 

Marcus nods, looking disappointed. “Worth a shot.”

 

“It’s not--” Dean stops, the words caught in his throat, “It’s me. I’m not--”

 

“You’ve never done this before,” Marcus finishes for him, echoing his words from earlier. “I get it. You’ll get there, though.”

 

Dean laughs at that, an ugly, disbelieving sound. Marcus might as well tell him a fairy story.

 

“What do I owe you for the jeans?”

 

Marcus smiles at that and lets him pay him privately, not wanting his inventory to come up short but also sparing Dean having to walk up to the register with cum stained jeans.

 

He walks him out, all the way to the Impala, and Dean thinks about everything they could have talked about. He would have asked if he like cars. He could have asked him where he was from, since it was obviously not around here. Maybe Marcus would have wanted to know what he did, and would have understood if Dean told him the truth someday. Stupid, useless thoughts.

 

His offer rings in his head long afterward, when he’s driving towards the next town.

 

_But we could grab some food, maybe catch a movie, if you want_

Those words in that order had sounded like a date, and Dean Winchester had no business going on a date, especially with a tall, beautiful man with the most stunning eyes he had ever seen.

  
  



End file.
